


Firebird

by CoraxAviary



Category: Band of Brothers, The Pacific (TV)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Period Typical Attitudes, World War II
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-20
Updated: 2020-08-20
Packaged: 2021-03-06 22:41:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,112
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26016679
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CoraxAviary/pseuds/CoraxAviary
Summary: Brief stories of a fiery pilot whose adventures take her to far-flung corners of both Allied theaters. Cameos from both shows will be featured often. This is meant to be a series of loosely-connected oneshots. It's my side project, which means updates will be sporadic (like, month-week sporadic. I'm not one of those people who leaves work unfinished for a year).Gen, currently.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 6





	1. Target Practice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Female flier Irene Mayweather runs into trouble while doing a target practice flyover at Fort Benning. Easy Company shoots up her plane, and she lands without gear. At the sight of her burning and plummeting plane, she earns her nickname and eventual callsign: Firebird.

There was a sudden slice-patter of bullets punching through metal, and moments later, thin shafts of sunlight were streaming through the body of the plane. They were all around now, shooting through the floor like a needle through fabric, leaving circles of emptiness in their wake. The drone of the plane receded into the background, the whistling bullets and screeching metal ringing in her ears. 

The first time, Irene told herself that the soldiers had missed badly, blowing out a controlled breath and clenching her gloved hands harder around the joystick, forcing herself to check the dash to see if she’d messed anything up. She would not dissolve into hysterics if someone accidentally shot up the belly of the plane. 

Irene let out an inadvertent scream when she heard more shots whizzing through the air, the bursts from something like a machine gun, barely able to tamp down the feeling of panic enough to keep her hands on the joystick and her eyes on the horizon. They continued without ceasing, sparking and bouncing in the inside of the small plane. No one told her that the soldiers were going to shoot at the _plane_. They were supposed to shoot the target that she was towing. A dull patter coming from the tail of the plane told her that they were shooting the target. But the men below were also shooting at her. 

Ruptures in the fuselage revealed concerning patches of sky and ground, and Irene could do nothing but grit her teeth and keep flying. Bursts of fire sprinkled more and more patches of light into the plane, and she nervously ripped her eyes off the floor, where she was seeing more of the base below than she should have been able to.

A bullet ricocheted inside the cockpit, right past her cheek, and Irene cringed away from the ping as another spray of gunfire dashed a line across the floor. Irene yanked her boot back just in time to avoid getting her right foot shot completely through. She screamed again, right as something above her was punctured and sparks rained down from her left side, and she cringed away. She felt something make a _clank_ inside the plane, and she tried to hope no one had hit anything essential. The plane groaned. Irene gasped as she felt her body pulled starboard, and she yanked her joystick back to where it had been before she jerked it sideways. 

She risked a look out the side, craning her head for as brief a time as she could manage to look at the wings. Something was busted on the starboard wing, and a trail of smoke was leaking out from one of the flaps. 

Irene hurriedly checked the other wing. Something else was wrong there, too. Suddenly, the port wing burst into flames. Yellow-orange licks of fire persisted in the air, creating a trail of thick black smoke. “Aw, f–”

A bullet sliced near her shoulder, and she smelled burning hair. 

She was almost panting, but she kept her breathing in check, in and out, fixing her eyes on the view ahead, through the windshield. The airfield was closer now, and she’d be out of the range of the firing field in a minute. Her heart was beating faster and faster, blood rushing past her ears. The thrum of the plane all around kept her present, and she tried to think of it as an extension of herself. There were only a few more seconds now, and Irene eyed the airfield desperately, willing someone to tell the troops to stop shooting at her feet. 

Right after considering the repercussions of someone hitting the fuel tank, a final spatter of bullets ripped through the plane floor and Irene felt an unmistakable piercing pain shoot through her left leg. It flashed like lighting up her calf and into her thigh, and Irene felt herself start panicking in earnest. She resolutely did not look at her leg, knowing she’d fall apart in the sky if she did. If she fell apart, the plane did, too. 

The bullets seemed to stop, and Irene held her breath for a few moments before she hissed in pain, the dull throbbing in her leg bringing tears to her eyes after the initial white-hot blinding shock faded away. She wanted to clutch at her leg, but she couldn’t; the landing strip was growing closer and with effort, Irene leaned over slightly to put down the landing gear. The plane rattled in the air, sending tremors up her shot-up leg.

The shift in weight put another ounce of stress on Irene’s left foot, and she screamed, a burning ache rushing up the whole left side of her body. She yanked on the landing gear lever, somehow, surging forward with her mouth stretched open in a grimace of agony. The handle plunged down with no resistance, and Irene knocked her joystick askew with her dropping arm, startled and disoriented. The landing gear lever wasn’t supposed to feel like that. 

She righted herself, tugging the joystick back on-center with a responding pang from her leg, which was starting to feel as if it was on fire. She risked a glance downwards and regretted it. Blood was making rivulets in her pants, with reddish shadows soaking through, growing sluggishly with each second. Another jolt of the plane as Irene started to descend sent a spasm of shocking pain down her leg and she moaned around clenched teeth, gripping the controls and pumping the landing gear again. Nothing descended. She turned around stiffly, trying to ignore the shuddering of the plane’s metal as air rushed past the holes and caught on something bent around on the port wing. It whistled through the bullet holes, sending icy lower-atmosphere air through her uniform. 

Something like a small bit of spattering, barely detectable over the hum of the engine and the rattling of the fuselage, caused Irene to look down again, thinking it might be hydraulic fluid, and blackish-red beads of thick blood were spotting the floor of the cockpit and rolling into the bullet sockets. She groaned, biting back a scream as another particularly violent tremor of air resistance shook her leg around. The flames from the wing crackled. It must have gotten inside somehow, and there was heat emanating from the left side of the body of the plane.

The landing strip was upon her. She tried the landing gear for the third time, and the plane did not respond. The pneumatics must have been shot through, and Irene felt a fresh wave of panic rip through her body. Her hands were sweating beneath their flight gloves from a combination of pain and fear, and Irene let out a yell of frustration, with the wind sweeping her voice away. She let go of the landing gear lever and reduced her speed, trying to put up the landing flaps. They responded, to Irene’s relief, but that feeling was short-lived. 

She was going to land, or die trying. Her leg was now in so much pain, Irene could have mistaken the few bullets she took for a leg-full of artillery flak or grenade debris. She swallowed another sob of pain, telling herself that the men overseas were taking a lot worse. She was going too fast, and descending much too quickly. She pulled up on the flaps and nose, trying to slow down while still landing on the strip, and the asphalt was coming closer and closer. 

She could make out the individual trees surrounding the landing area, and the planes parked all around. She ground her teeth, holding on with every fiber of her being on the joystick, and yanked up farther. The nose tilted up, and the black-grey of the landing zone still grew rapidly – much too rapidly for Irene’s liking. She pushed her right leg against the floor, bracing herself against the accelerating air that was blowing at a tremendous force against her, and she tried, in an attempt, to push her other leg more firmly. 

All she got was a blinding flash of pain, and she blinked away stars, inadvertent tears streaming down her face and being whipped away by the sharp wind gusting through the aircraft. She took a large breath, abruptly ending a scream she didn’t know she was making, and the plane hit the ground. 

The force of the impact rocked Irene almost out of her seat, and she kicked her right leg against the side of the dash, thrown out of her seat momentarily. Her left leg hit the side of the plane, and she gasped for breath, pulling at the joystick and trying to turn the plane to land sideways. She was sliding too fast, and felt the screech of metal dragging along the runway. She absently registered the yells of men who were on the airstrip, and she bit the sides of her mouth hard as she tried to wrangle the plane. If she slid all the way to the end, she’d hit a tree or unpaved ground and maybe then she’d go up in flames. 

She pulled and pulled, her left leg feeling like it was going to tear itself apart, ligament from ligament. The screeching of the belly of the plane on the ground rang with an ear splitting volume, and the sight of the trees at the end of the runway grew with each passing millisecond. 

The plane halted, though not before the nose crunched into the nearest tree. Irene sat blankly in the cockpit, heaving breaths and still gripping the joystick, her ruined plane thrumming. She flicked off a few switches and her leg throbbed wildly with a pain she’d never felt before in her life. She made a bad attempt at lifting it, but any move made it hurt so bad she gave up, slumping back in her seat as the flames climbed on the port side. 

There was a yell from a ways away, and some voices. Irene was still staring at the beginning of the Georgia forest, unable to do anything on account of her leg. She supposed she could, theoretically, but she didn’t have it in her to make it hurt even more. Some more blood dribbled onto the floor, dripping through the hole-spattered floor. 

She made another move to try and leave the plane, and her leg gave out. She slumped against the side of the inner wall, watching orange flames lick up the outside of the port fuselage. 

“Hey! Hey,” a voice said, suddenly close, and Irene moved her head, looking around for the speaker. “You alive in there?”

Irene got out a “yeah,” before her voice devolved into a broken pattern of groans. 

There was the sound of the top of the cockpit being forced open – metallic screeching, not dissimilar to the sound of broken landing gear dragging on the runway. Light flooded the interior of the plane as the screeching stopped. Irene blew out breath after breath, trying to dampen the sounds she was making, but another sob ripped its way free as her leg was rocked by the force of people climbing atop the plane. In the light, she could tell that her pants were soaked through on the bottom with red.

Hands descended from outside the plane, and they lifted her out somehow, with Irene screaming and clawing at her leg, and the plane groaning. Flames crackled. They cleared her of the ceiling of the plane, and more hands reached out to receive her on the ground. She was carried away, and she watched as the fire grew and consumed it. One of the wings finally fell off with a bang and a hiss, and Irene looked away, unable to see her Wildcat dying in front of her. 

“Ya hit?” said a voice, and Irene felt herself being laid down on the ground. Her leg hit the runway with less grace and she let out a short yell. 

She was going to try for something sarcastic like _no, whaddya think_ , but “leg” was all she could manage, pointing with her right hand. She felt someone tearing back the bloody pants on her lower leg, someone muttering to themselves, the plastic and fabric rustling of an aid kit. Irene gritted her teeth and stared up at the sky, her other leg writhing in pain and her hands clenching and unclenching. The pain took over her consciousness. 

Someone patted her down for more injuries. She heard her plane popping and sizzling in the fire, and someone yelling in the distance to put the fire out. The sky was blue and very bright, so she closed her eyes, entire body jerking when someone started to twist a tourniquet around her calf. 

“Calm down,” someone else chanted from above. Irene opened her eyes, and there were a few men attending the medic, who was twisting the cloth tighter and tighter. Irene felt it biting into her skin like a knife was going through her leg, somehow worse than the initial bullet wounds, and she started to scream through her teeth. “It’s okay,” someone said from above. “Just two bullets.”

“ ‘M calm,” she said through a dry throat. Irene suddenly wanted to laugh, but she couldn’t manage it. 

“And some shrapnel,” he added. Irene thrashed as something jabbed deep into the flesh of her leg; the guy held her down. Moments later, there was the pattering of running feet – a lot of them. Irene didn’t bother to look at what was going on. She was attracting a crowd, or something. There was a needle-like jab in Irene’s other leg. 

“She okay?” said a foreign voice from above. _No, thanks to you_.

“Does she look okay?” said the guy from before. The pain started to diminish slightly.

“We didn’t know–” said another person before being cut off by the original man. 

“You didn’t know not to shoot down your own planes?” said the man disbelievingly. There was a sound like the other man was trying to say something. “You paratroopers are even more stupid than I thought.”

“We’re sorry, we didn’t–”

“Get out of here. You can find her later when she’s not bleeding out of three holes you made,” said the guy. 

The other boots slowly retreated, and Irene felt herself being lifted again, her leg going numb and her head lolling back as they took her somewhere. 

✕

Irene looked up from the bed. It was night, and she had fallen asleep some hours before, after the surgeon fixed her up. She was lucky, they told her: both bullets missed the bone and the artery. The shrapnel piece that had lodged in her shin was the more concerning thing, and after they’d gotten it out, Irene heard the clang of the sliver in a pan. She’d recover in no time, they said.

Irene wasn’t particularly angry, for some reason. But when she turned around to see who was sleeping next to her bed, a spark of fury reignited. Her Wildcat was probably unsalvageable, her leg had been ripped up, and she’d had to land without gear because of _these guys_. These guys who were so mindlessly stupid they’d shoot up a target-dragging plane instead of the _target_. It wouldn’t be hard to conclude that somehow they’d stupidly mistaken the Allied brand on either wing for targets. It was beyond unintelligent. What were they thinking?

They weren't thinking, probably. That was the issue.

He’d probably come to see her and apologize, or something, but he hadn’t even been able to stay awake for that. Irene squinted at his face, trying to make out his features in the dark. He was still in a training uniform, helmet in his lap. There was a white card spade on the brim, and the guy looked rather disheveled. In his sleep, he was frowning, but kind of soft-looking. 

“Rough day?” Irene said loudly to the man. He jerked, startled out of his sleep, and sat up straight in the chair, running a hurried hand through his hair. He looked at Irene, mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. Despite the situation, Irene snorted, holding back a laugh at the sight of the disoriented soldier. 

“I’m sorry I fell asleep…” he trailed off, rubbing at his eyes. He looked around, seeming to realize it was dark. “Oh God, what time is it?” he said futilely, tugging at the sleeve of one arm of his uniform to check a watch. He groaned. 

“Who _are_ you?” said Irene, looking at the guy, unimpressed. 

“I, uh–” he said, looking around at the hospital room. “Shifty.”

“Relax, there’s no one else here,” she said, rolling her eyes. “Shifty what?”

“Uh, Powers.”

“Well, Shifty _Uh_ Powers,” said Irene, tired. “You a paratrooper or something?”

“Yeah. Well, I’m gonna be,” he said nervously, looking like he wanted to leave but couldn’t. “You know, I am so sorry for what happened earlier today,” he said, wringing his hands in an un-soldierly way. “We weren’t told–”

“You weren’t told what?” retorted Irene calmly, watching him squirm. “Not to shoot at an American volunteer pilot with Allied stars on the wings?”

“Well, no…” he trailed off. 

“God, you _are_ dumb,” said Irene, settling into the pillows. “You don't have to be told that.”

“I–”

“Did your platoon send you to apologize or something?” said Irene, almost smiling but struggling to keep a serious face. “Cause you’re doing a fine job.”

“Uh, no…” he trailed off. Irene raised an eyebrow. “I felt bad, so I came and then–”

“You felt bad, so you came and fell asleep?” asked Irene. Shifty looked at her helplessly. Irene laughed, anger gone. This kid was a fool. “Gosh. You gotta buy me a drink, first,” she said. 

He looked confused at Irene’s sudden perceived mood change. It was a look Irene was used to. She had been told she was confusingly temperamental. In reality, she considered herself someone who didn’t take life too seriously. Apparently that included death, too, considering today’s events. Irene thought she should have been more mad, but if Shifty could be forced to buy her a whiskey or three, she was getting more out of it. Maybe she could squeeze a few bar visits out of the rest of the guys. 

“Take me when my leg’s all good,” said Irene, leaning closer. “We can dance or something.”

“O-okay,” said Shifty, looking torn between interest and guilt. Irene was enjoying this too much. 

“Everyone who claims to be sorry’s gotta prove it by making up for my pain,” said Irene, pointing at her leg, which was buried under sheets. Shifty cringed almost imperceptibly. “With fun.”

She grinned, forgetting the pain in her leg for a second. Shifty looked mystified. She almost laughed again, but she was feeling too strung-out from the day to put out any more jabs. 

“Go back to your billet,” said Irene. “You’re tired.”

He got up hesitantly, and did what he was told. He shut the door gently behind him. 

Irene breathed in the stale air of the base hospital. She’d be flying again soon. But in the meantime, she’d milk this for all it was worth. 

✕

“God, we all saw you fallin’ outta the sky and thought you were done for,” said Elizabeth. Irene rolled her eyes. 

“Yeah right. I had control of the plane,” she said. 

“Uh, you landed without gear. That’s the definition of outta control,” Elizabeth responded, moving down the chow line and placing both of their trays on the counter. Irene followed her, clicking along on the ground with crutches at a strange tripod pace. One of the kitchen workers served them food, and Elizabeth pushed the trays farther down. 

“No, I was in control. Gotta be in order to _land_ ,” said Irene, having nothing to do except adjust her grip on the crutches, which were wedged under her armpits uncomfortably. They were a little too tall for her, since most of the injuries on-base were supposed to consist of men. Irene barely cleared the women’s flight requirement as it was. She was five-foot-two on her better days, and jumping to get into her bunk at the worst. 

The man serving the dessert globbed a scoop of apple cobbler on each plate. Irene looked at him harshly, jiggling her right crutch slightly. “Think I could get more? Since I’m, you know…” she said. He looked at her without amusement. 

“Move down. You’re not dying,” he said. 

“You know, I could be,” said Irene, Elizabeth already moving away and somehow carrying both trays. “I could have a disease that’s eating me from the inside–”

Elizabeth elbowed Irene in the side. “Leave the poor man alone,” she said, and nodded to an empty table. “Let’s sit there.”

Irene let herself hobble after Elizabeth, glancing at the kitchen man. He was kinda cute, actually, Irene thought. Maybe–

“Hey,” said Elizabeth, snapping a finger in front of Irene’s face. “You’re on crutches and you’re still eyeing men?”

Irene smiled sardonically. “You know me, Liz.” She got to the table, fumbling a bit with her crutches before awkwardly lowering herself to the bench, and then she leaned her crutches on the side of the table. They started to slide away, and Irene caught them and just placed them on the floor, leaning over with one leg preventing her from sliding away, too. She straightened, and caught Elizabeth staring sympathetically at her leg. “Brighten up. It’s me injured, not you,” she said, reaching over to steal some of Elizabeth’s dessert.

Elizabeth smacked her hand away, tutting. “So, you think they’ll let you stay on-base?” she asked, starting to eat. 

“I hope,” said Irene, picking up her fork, trying to ignore the seriousness of the question. There was a good chance she’d be removed from the base altogether, and someone would maybe try to revoke her license and give her some civilian equivalent of an honorable discharge. Which, she supposed, was just a boot to the behind. She’d rather the women be considered real Army girls sooner, but it was taking longer than anyone had originally thought. A Purple Heart would have been nice.

“I’d hate for you to leave,” continued Elizabeth. “It wouldn’t be half as fun.”

“Aww,” said Irene. “Gonna get emotional?”

“Shut up,” said Elizabeth. “We’d be losing one of the best pilots out of the crew, just saying.”

Irene smiled. “Thanks,” she said. “Never thought you’d admit it.”

Elizabeth looked like she was going to slap Irene – playfully, albeit forcefully – when Margaret plunked her tray down next to Elizabeth, looking at Irene. 

“Hey,” said Margaret. “Your leg hurtin’?” Irene considered the question for a moment, deciding whether or not to go with the truth or something that would make both of them less concerned. She hadn’t been serious this whole time with Elizabeth, though, so she decided on telling it how it was. 

“A little,” she admitted. Margaret _awwed_ in sympathy, and Irene cringed slightly. “Not that much. I got painkillers from the doctor.” She started to eat in earnest, not really seeing much value to this small-talk conversation.

“Hmm,” said Margaret. “Hope it heals fast.”

“Me, too,” said Irene, chewing. 

“So,” Elizabeth said, looking to change the subject. She probably saw through Irene’s bright exterior and sensed her discomfort. “You think we’re gonna get callsigns?”

“Callsigns?” asked Margaret. “What’re those?”

“They’re like nicknames, for you and your plane or something,” said Irene, swallowing. “I think the men get them. Has something to do with the radio.”

“I don’t know if we get to choose or anything,” said Elizabeth. “But, uh, a girl can wonder.”

Irene laughed briefly, amused by her friend’s enthusiasm for the air. “What would you be?” she asked Elizabeth. 

“I don’t know,” Elizabeth said. “But I got one for you.”

Irene looked at her in disbelief. “How long have you been thinking about this?” she asked. 

Elizabeth shrugged and smiled. “A few days.”

“Well then, what is it?” asked Margaret. Irene nodded, looking at Elizabeth. 

“Well, when we saw you with that flaming Wildcat in the air, and then when it _really_ caught fire on the runway…” she trailed off, smiling at Irene with a mischievous grin. 

“What?” asked Irene. “You gonna call me something ridiculous?”

“No,” said Elizabeth. “I think it’s really accurate.”

“Come on,” said Margaret. 

Elizabeth almost laughed before she said it. “Firebird.”

There was silence as Irene looked at Elizabeth in disbelief. “Firebird? Cause I was going down in flames?”

Elizabeth shook her head. “No, cause you landed it in flames. And came out, very much alive and screaming.”

They all looked at each other, and then burst out laughing. Irene put her head in her hands, heaving with laughter. When the laughing died down, Irene looked back up at Elizabeth. 

“I love it,” Irene said, shaking her head. “I really do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Believe it or not, this actually happened. At Camp Davis, some Women Airforce Service Pilots (WASPs) got their feet shot at while towing targets. These 25 women were the inspiration for this installment.


	2. When the Living is Easy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Irene is stationed in an Aldbourne-adjacent base and spends some time with the 101st. She flies a training exercise and witnesses the men’s first nighttime training jump (with full gear and high winds) go terribly.

“Hey, didn’t think I’d find a dame in here,” said a voice over Irene’s shoulder. She took a long pull at her beer, taking her time before she turned around to see who was trying to sidle closer. 

“Didn’t think you’d find a dame in the best bar in Aldbourne?” Irene said sharply, bracing her elbows on the bar before craning around in the barstool. The man was pale, lanky, dark-haired. Not a bad face, kind of cocky-looking. Lopsided grin. She looked at his face, eyes dropping down quickly to his sleeve. T and one chevron. Technician, first grade. Irene almost snorted to herself. He was a first-grader. In interest, her eyes skimmed the screaming eagle patch. 101st. _Hmm_.

“Normally it’s only soldiers,” he said, leaning closer into Irene’s space. She sipped at her drink serenely, meeting his eyes without displaying any sort of reception. Normally, Irene would reciprocate, maybe flirt a little bit, but the eagle made it impossible. She pushed away the familiarity and put a gentle curve to her lips, not quite reaching her eyes in a full smile.

“You in 101st, huh? Paratrooper?” she said slowly, reaching out a hand to trace the patch with her finger. 

He looked down, then back at Irene, grin becoming a little more tilted. “Yeah, the best of the best,” he said eagerly. 

Irene smiled, hoping he’d continue. “Outta curiosity,” she said, lightly rubbing at the embroidery on the patch. He leaned in closer, and Irene tilted her head. “What regiment?”

“Five-oh-Sink,” said the man proudly. Irene’s smile grew, her luck holding. There was just one more thing he had to get right, and then she’d really had hit the jackpot. 

“What company?” she asked innocently. 

“Easy Company,” the man said with no little pride, as he watched Irene’s hand, which had strayed to his bicep. He looked her up and down when her hands stilled. 

“You serious?” she said, in disbelief. 

“Yeah, ‘course,” said the man. Irene almost laughed. Somehow God had placed her here. What a fortunate coincidence. 

“What’s your name, First Grader?” asked Irene, dropping the coy smile and changing it out for her real smug one – the one with a good deal more tooth. The man didn’t look repelled. Irene guessed he was a few drinks in, and he wouldn’t be put off by anything too subtle. Soldiers were like that – kind of grabby and absent, losing their mind at the sight of a female. Irene had learned after a few months of flying and respectively bar-hopping that attention-starved young men weren’t that choosy. 

“Joe,” he said.

Irene raised an eyebrow, swallowing a mouthful of beer. “Joe what?”

“Joe Liebgott.” 

Irene felt the smile on her face widen. “Well, Joe, can you tell me if Shifty Powers is with you?”

She saw Joe lean back slightly, as if he was being rejected. Irene watched his confident exterior flicker ever so slightly, and Liebgott shifted on his feet, then looked around the bar. “Lucky for you, he’s here tonight,” Liebgott said with a little less enthusiasm than before, probably concluding he’d shot his best shot. “There,” he said suddenly, waving over to a table with a hand that was still holding a half-full glass. 

Irene looked over, and she almost laughed. Shifty was there alright: a few months removed from how Irene had last seen him: sleeping in a dirty training uniform, clutching a helmet. He cleaned up nice, looking rather comfortable in a service uniform with double chevrons and a quiet demeanor in comparison to all the others around him, laughing and talking raucously. 

She dropped off the barstool, careful to land on her right leg – the left didn’t take well to impacts, still – and left Liebgott behind, who called after her with a muffled, “hey!” Irene ignored him and scooped up her drink. What she was really here for was Shifty. 

Irene pushed through more men, slapping hands away as she caught someone reaching for her ass. She was so eager to get to the table that she was breathless after making the short but meandering journey, holding her beer glass precariously over the crowd.

Before any of the men at the packed table could look up and see Irene, or even realize she was making a beeline for them, she slammed her glass down on the tabletop, pushing herself between the sprawled-out legs of two soldiers to get closer. All eyes around the table centered on Irene, and the talk died down, creating a small island of calm in the packed bar. She felt a sudden surge of discomfort after everyone started looking, but she pushed forwards with her plan anyway, potential embarrassment be damned. She fixed an intense look at Shifty, and she saw a gradual look of recognition come over his features. 

“Shifty Powers,” Irene said loudly. “You gonna introduce me to everyone else?”

Shifty paled, and sat up straighter, letting go of his drink on the table and wiping his palms on his service uniform pants. Irene smiled wider as he looked like he was trying to say something, but nothing came out. 

“I just wanna know who was holding the machine gun,” continued Irene, enjoying the confused looks on the faces of all the men present. “That one took out the landing gear,” she said enthusiastically. “Hell of a ride.” She grinned brightly, leaning forwards on the table, propriety going out the window as she bent, bracing elbows on the tabletop, eyes drilling into Shifty. “Ride of a lifetime, if I do say so myself.”

One of the men, brown-haired and blue-eyed – _cute nose_ passing briefly through Irene’s mind – looked at her ponderously, eyebrows knitted together, halfway to recognition after she spoke. Some of the others looked deep in thought, squinting at Irene as if she reminded them of something. Irene didn’t fault them particularly for not recognizing her. None of them had met her, except for Shifty. That was why she had to do it right then. 

Shifty looked like he was struggling, and Irene had half a mind to put him out of his misery and go introduce herself like a normal person. He was possibly the most gentle-looking one of them all, and Irene noticed that some of the others would have taken her aggressive antics better than him. She felt a little bad, and then remembered their conversation. “Remember, all is forgiven when you get me a drink.”. 

“Uh…” he trailed off, looking nervously at the men around the table. They looked back and forth from Shifty to Irene. Belatedly, a look of realization dawned on Blue Eyes’s face, and he pointed at Irene with his mouth slightly open. 

“ _That’s_ her?” he asked Shifty, who nodded helplessly. 

“Who, Tab?” asked one of the other men around his huge cigar, a soldier with blonde hair and broad shoulders.

“Her, the, uh, pilot,” Tab replied, snapping his fingers and darting a quick look at Irene. She flashed her teeth at him, and he looked back at Shifty. “The one pulling the target, right?” Shifty nodded rapidly, not trying to say anything anymore. “The uh… the one we… shot at. Accidentally,” he concluded, cringing slightly as he looked back at Irene. She threw caution to the wind and responded with a wink. Tab looked cautiously back at her with a mixture of trepidation and intrigue, if it was even possible to combine such looks. Irene took a swig of her beer, putting it down on the table with a bang. 

“You are right,” she said to Tab. “Very right indeed.” She looked at Shifty and the other men, who were displaying various expressions of supplication and guilt at this point. “Wanna see?” She didn’t wait for a response, braced her right foot on the floor, and swung her left onto the edge of the table. It landed with a _thud_ , rattling the glassware already on the tabletop. Some of the men flinched back at Irene’s sudden vigor. She tugged up her trouser leg to the knee, vacantly aware that it was _unladylike_ , but at this point she couldn’t have cared less. It had been years since she’d resembled anything close to a _lady_.

There were three scars: two bullet wounds that were on the sides of her calf, and a large raised slash across her shin, where she’d taken shrapnel. Irene kept her foot on the table and crossed her arms, looking about at the men. 

Tab laughed nervously with a few of the others. Shifty was looking at her with an expression of scared confusion. 

“So, uh, whaddya say?” she said to Shifty. “I always keep a promise. Debt’s forgiven once you pay for a drink.” She gestured to the circle of men in general with her glass. “Includes all of you.” Irene took her leg off the table and crouched down at the edge of the table because there weren’t any free chairs nearby. “Tell me who you are. Don’t know any of y’all’s names.”

With no other choice, the men started reciting names, starting with the man directly to Irene’s left and circling around her. Alex Penkala, Floyd Talbert, Skip Muck, Shifty, Bull Randleman, Joe Toye, and Don Malarkey. 

“Was it bad?” Joe asked quietly, with no little reverence, still looking at her leg, which was tucked beneath her. Irene looked at him with a smile. 

“Yup, worst pain of my life,” she said, taking a sip of her drink. “Screamin’ and crying. Like it was on fire, but a lot worse”. His face, which communicated a rather tough-looking exterior, softened a bit as he looked like he was trying to picture it. “Blood all over the bottom of the cockpit. ‘Course, the plane blew up before anyone could clean it out,” she said with a short laugh. 

Joe went quiet and looked at her as if she was the soldier, not him. Irene risked a brief look around the table and saw all the men looking real sorry. She felt bad for a second. “Hey, don’t look so sad. I’m up and flyin’ all over England, so it’s alright.” She patted his arm and he tensed up, so she pulled away quickly. 

The table fell silent. A few men raised their glasses to their lips self-consciously. 

“So, what’re you boys doing in Aldbourne?” Irene asked, breaking the awkward lull. 

“We’re stationed here for more training. Maneuvering and navigation, uh, more field practice. Stuff like that,” Malarkey said. 

“This late in the war?” Irene said. The other men nodded, some looking rather disappointed to be reminded of this fact. “Can’t fight the Germans from England.”

Malarkey and a few others shrugged. “It’s what the brass wants,” he said.

“Sometimes you almost forget there’s another war across the ocean,” Irene said. “Some of my friends have gone over to the Pacific a few times. Couldn’t tell me the names of the islands, as if that would matter. Couldn’t pronounce Guadalcanal for a month.”

“You know a pilot that flew over Guadalcanal?” asked some from behind Irene, and she turned around, tracking the voice. “Oh, sorry, I’m Grant. Chuck Grant,” he said, extending a hand in greeting. Irene shook it over her shoulder. 

“Yeah, sure I did. She was droppin’ supplies when the battling was all said and done,” Irene said. “Didn’t even get outta the plane, but she has landed a coupla times in other places. Says there are bugs the size of ya face and crabs bigger than dogs.”

“Bullshit,” Malarkey said. “That’s impossible.”

“And sand everywhere,” said Irene. “Fighting over there is different. It’s not like Europe.”

“Like, how?” asked Grant. 

Irene thought for a moment, sobered by her brief memories of entering a war hospital full of Pacific Marines. She was there for a quick supply drop-off, but some men she’d accidentally seen were missing arms. Legs. Parts hidden under threadbare, frequently-washed hospital sheets. There was a case of malaria that had swept through companies, taking out up to half of the unlucky ones. The shivery ones in the blankets despite the humid, clouding heat. She would never forget the sights – they were burned into her memory forever. 

“Wet and muddy,” Irene said. She thought of how to put it into words. “Long. From what I hear, the Japs target medics and mutilate corpses. They’re a different kind.”

There was a silence. 

“Can’t be worse than the Jerries,” Toye said unsteadily. He cleared his throat, drank some beer. “I mean, how many of those are stories?”

“I’d believe it,” said a new voice. Irene turned around again. New guy. He leaned into the circle of men, square-jawed and icy-eyed. “Japs are another typa creature. Not human. They’ll eat you alive and do terrible things to the women. And the children.”

“Shut up, Gonorrhea,” said Toye. “Ain’t nobody know except the Marines and the people who been there. June probably knows better’n you, what with her letters.”

Gonorrhea rolled his eyes. “What– what now?” Irene said, taking another look. “Your name is…?”

“Guarnere,” said the guy, stressing the syllables. “Ass,” he shot at Toye, who gave Guarnere a sardonic smile. 

“Wish we were gonna fight sooner,” said the blonde one, Skip, almost wistful. “Krauts can get their asses handed to them when we drop in.”

Irene took a drink and then looked around the table, taking a breath and forcing a smile back on, trying to banish the hospital from her mind, at least for the moment. “So, you’ve dropped before? How is it? Must be intimidating, huh?”

The men looked at each other. “Eh, only a little. You get used to it,” Malarkey said. “Five times for the jump wings.” He pointed to the silver parachutist’s badge pinned proudly on his chest. 

“Nice,” Irene said. “Done any night drops yet?” 

“Yeah,” Tab said. “But our first night maneuvering exercise with a drop is this Friday. Full gear and packs, for practice.” 

Irene raised an eyebrow, a smile coming back. “This Friday?”

“Yep,” confirmed Shifty, speaking up for the first time in a while. “First drop in Aldbourne, too.” He sounded more scared than excited. 

“Well,” said Irene, choosing not to share her piece. “Good luck to you boys. Sure it’ll go fine.”

“Fine, indeed,” Bull said. “Let’s drink to it.”

All the men raised their glasses, Irene following suit. 

“To the night jump,” Bill said over the din of the bar. 

“To the night jump!” all the other men and Irene echoed. She drained her glass and set it on the table, beginning to feel a bit blurry about the edges. Her blood was tingling with unspent energy. 

“Did no one teach you to never mix work with fun? It’s forgiveness time. Shifty, my next drink is on you,” she said, heading around the table, pushing through clumps of people to get over to Shifty’s chair. He looked up at her with a smile that might have been part grimace, but Irene was undeterred. “Let’s go.”

✕

Meeting Lieutenant Richard Winters had been as dull Irene was expecting it to be. She’d heard that he was a natural leader, a good officer, and a rather nice man, at least the way that the enlisted men spoke about him. She’d only gotten to talk to anyone about the officers a few times. All of these things were evident from the time Irene shook his hand, and he simply acknowledged her with a “good morning, Pilot.” He had his mouth set in a straight line, and his uniform was pressed and creased with knifelike precision. Winters gave her a brief outline of their plans for the night. Irene already had it down and memorized – despite her rather rambunctious reputation, she did take flying as seriously as a commissioned fighter pilot. 

However, Lieutenant Nixon, the intelligence officer, was slightly more entertaining, to Irene’s delight. He was cheerfully sarcastic, in a strange inversion of his friend. He did his duty, of course – the maps and the little wooden markers that the Army liked to use were used by Nixon in excess, and Irene eyed the table as he listed times and shuttled plane positions back and forth. In the end, Irene only had to know where she was flying, but she’d been included in this officer’s meeting for a reason, so she tried not to zone out while the other men around her postured about in their berets and jump boots.

“Okay, any questions?” Winters asked the room, and the officers and pilots shook their heads to the negative. Irene startled out of a half-trance she’d fallen into. “Dismissed,” Winters said. “Good luck tonight.”

The men kind of nodded at each other, exchanging handshakes – which the point of was lost on Irene, especially when the men already knew each other – and the room slowly emptied. Irene almost walked out, hot on the heels of Elizabeth until she remembered something she wanted to ask. 

“Sir?” Irene said, in the direction of the maps. “Lieutenant Winters?”

“What is it?” he asked, looking up from something Nixon was showing him. 

Irene thought for a second about how to phrase her request. “I’m flying part of your company, sir. Easy Company.”

“That’s right,” Winters said, expectantly. 

“May I request permission to address the company before we fly out?” 

Winters raised an eyebrow, looking at his second. Nixon shrugged, throwing a hand out as if to communicate _what could she possibly say_? Winters looked back at Irene. 

“Sure, Mayweather. Keep it brief. We have a mission to run,” he said. 

“Thank you, sir,” said Irene, moving towards the door. “I’ll keep it short, sir.” And with that, she disappeared into the airfield, ready to burn some hours until her departure that night at 2200.

✕

Irene hoisted her flight bag over her shoulder, watching Elizabeth sort through her supplies, trying to untangle something. 

“Jeez, woman, what do you have in there?” Irene asked, voice bouncing around sonorously in the empty hangar. The sky was dark outside, and the orange lights coming from subsequent hangars down the line illuminated a few assembled companies, far away, standing on the runway. Parked C-47s loomed over the soldiers like dark, sleeping dragons with broad wings. Another company marched up and pulled to a stop beside the others. There must have been a couple hundred men standing in the airfield at that moment. Irene bounced on her toes, feeling the warm excitement of a flight coursing through her. 

“Just gimme a couple more minutes,” Elizabeth said, who stopped detangling to look up at Irene. “You nervous? You’re gonna make me nervous if you keep hopping like that.” Irene stopped trotting about, put down her bag, and resorted to spastically tugging at her uniform, making sure everything was present. 

“Won’t be as nervous with you as my copilot,” Irene said, looking down at Elizabeth. “Ol’ reliable.” Elizabeth gave a grunt of frustration as she crouched next to her bag. 

Irene pulled back her jacket sleeve to look at her watch. It was thirty minutes to 2200. 

“Hey, you mind if I go out a little early?”

“Sure, you’re rarin’ to go,” Elizabeth said. “I’ll meet you down at the field soon.”

“Good,” Irene said, walking in the direction of the hangar door, scooping up her flight bag. “Otherwise I’ll have no one to talk to while we hang out in the cockpit like idiots with half an hour to spare.”

Irene heard a snort of laughter echo from where Elizabeth was, just before she stepped into the cool night air and some wind hit her in the face, blowing back her hair gently. Irene whirled around, looking for a windsock. It was dark, but she could barely make one out, far to the west, and it was flapping wildly. Irene huffed a sigh. Flying conditions were less than ideal, but Winters had made it clear that this was a routine flight – easy and quick. Up and down in a couple of minutes. And Irene got the sense that no one wanted this high-production exercise pushed back unless the pilots were going to fly into a monsoon.

Well, there was no rain, which was saying something for England. Irene supposed that was fortunate in itself, and she strode over to where Easy Company was assembled. Easy would have been divided into five planes ideally, but it looked like there were only four planes per company. Irene was to fly a quarter of the company into the drop zone, turn on the drop light, and head back to base. Simple. 

As Irene neared the company, she made out the figures of Winters, Nixon, and a few other officers congregated near the front. Lined up in sticks was the rest of the company. Irene darted a look at Winters, who didn’t seem to acknowledge her yet. As Irene got closer, she started to address her stick. 

“Stick two! I’m your pilot for today’s jump,” Irene yelled over the wind and the ambiance of the airfield. She came closer and noticed Winters had turned around to watch her arrive. “Good evening, sir,” she said to Winters, conscious that she was about to ride the line of acceptable behavior. No one could throw her out of the Army, though. Because she wasn’t in the Army. Maybe the worst that could happen was being moved somewhere else because of her conduct, because licensed volunteer pilots were in short supply. Irene intended to exploit the power dynamic to the maximum. 

Winters nodded at her. Irene took that as her cue. She turned around to take in the twenty-five or so men that comprised her stick.

“Normally I’d tell you not to upset me, cause I’m the one who’s in control of that flying box,” Irene yelled, pointing at the C-47 behind her, “that’s gonna carry you into the atmosphere, a few hundred feet from the ground for you to jump outta.” She spoke with an unnerving authority, addressing the entire Company without the expected formality of any volunteer pilot. A smile grew on Irene’s face. “Well, it’s too late for that, gentlemen.”

She watched them look at each other – there were a few whispers. They knew who she was. All was forgiven from the rifle practice incident. But Irene didn’t pass up an opportunity to have some fun. Besides that, she genuinely needed to tell them some things in particular.

“If I see or hear or _smell_ you throwing up in that Skytrain, I will drag you back here personally after the jump, assuming you survive, and make you scrub the inside,” she shouted at the company. Irene threw in one last smile for good measure. At that moment, she saw Elizabeth out of the corner of her eye, breathlessly greeting Winters with her bag over her shoulder. Irene looked over, and Elizabeth looked at her with a slightly horrified expression, and nodded to the plane. They both left the stick and walked over to the plane. 

“What was that?” Elizabeth hissed, once they were out of earshot of Easy. “What are you thinking?”

“What was what?” Irene said defensively. “Gotta lay down ground rules. Do you wanna be scrubbing vomit out of the inside of the plane on a fine Saturday morning?”

Elizabeth sighed, and dropped her bag below the ladder, climbing inside the plane. “I suppose not?” she said. Irene passed Elizabeth her bag, and then her own. “You’re actually gonna follow through? I hear men are throwin’ up something awful on these missions.”

Irene climbed up the ladder, and then hoisted herself inside the doorway, following Elizabeth into the cockpit and climbing into the right seat. “Of course. Who do I look like to you, a flake?”

Elizabeth laughed tiredly. “Not if I ever knew one.”

“You don’t wanna introduce yourself?” Irene asked. 

“I’ll do it before we take off,” Elizabeth said. 

✕

The Skytrain was a big plane. It was a loud plane. It roared and clanked in the sky, deafening everyone inside and shaking them with turbulence. The winds were undesirably high and the amount of rattling and jostling inside was violently unpleasant. But nothing could prevent Irene from recognizing the retching in the cabin, and she let out a groan, inaudible against the pounding that the plane was taking from the weather. She had almost convinced herself that this stick would be _different_ , but she was fooling herself. Easy had weak stomachs, it turned out.

Elizabeth didn’t seem to notice. By the time the plane was over the dropzone, and Irene had switched the jump light from red to green, there had been about three separate incidents of men being sick. She didn’t risk a look over her shoulder into the cabin, and she kept her eyes on the sky. But the entire flight back, she was dreading having to come out of the cockpit and look at the vomit left over from the flight. 

Irene was right: it was disgusting. Elizabeth took one look at the floor of the cabin when they were back safe at the airfield and staggered out, down the ladder, and emptied her own stomach onto the runway. Irene held her nose and stepped carefully, making her way out with considerably more grace but a lot more irritation. 

✕

It was early on Saturday morning, the next day, when Irene and Elizabeth were up before the sun, walking towards the Army-occupied part of Aldbourne. The sky was a typical English gray, stars still winking above the horizon.

Elizabeth looked dubiously at the houses and apartments lining the street. “Three of them, you said?”

“Well, it coulda all been the same guy, but with the amount that came out—“

“Okay, I get the picture,” Elizabeth said weakly. She paused for a beat to look around the empty town, peaceful and quiet this early in the morning without a litany of Army men to crowd the sidewalks. 

“Three men to twenty-five. That’s twelve percent,” Irene said, counting in her head. “Wow, we’ve never had something above ten percent, have we?”

“ _We’ve_ never had anything to calculate,” Elizabeth said. “We’ve never flown a Skytrain with men in it.”

Irene shrugged. “Felt the same, though. Except for the vomiting. Anyway,” she said, stretching out her stiffened, cold muscles. The two had gotten a few hours of sleep. She only imagined how late the men had gotten to bed. “This is a new record for the platoon.”

Irene couldn’t see Elizabeth clearly in the murky light, but she imagined her rolling her eyes. “We’re not a platoon. And I guess. Not something to be proud of.”

“Well, yeah, now I have to find the guys and make ‘em clean it,” Irene said. Elizabeth groaned. 

“You think they’re even back yet?” Elizabeth asked. Both of them stopped in the middle of the street and watched a pile of leaves blow about in a spiral. No lights were on in the houses, and there was no sign of life. “I mean, it’s pretty empty.”

As if to answer their question, the dull pounding of boots against the pavement started to echo up from the road. Irene and Elizabeth watched as men, still in ODs and full gear, mounted the hill and started to disperse towards their respective houses. The two moved to the side of the road, watching them pass. The men looked dead tired – so tired, in fact, that no one noticed the pilots watching Easy Company pass until one man turned around and nodded briefly. 

“Irene?” said a man – Malarkey, Irene recognized – that split from the group and peeled off towards the pilots. “Whatcha doin’ here?” He was less than enthusiastic, but Irene could tell he was still trying to summon up some courtesy. He rubbed at his eyes, rifle on his back swaying back and forth. He blinked tiredly. Irene hadn’t ever seen him outside the context of the bar, so she was briefly startled before answering his question.

“I was gonna try and get some of you to clean the plane, but…” she trailed off, watching the soldiers trail towards their host family houses. One man dropped his helmet in the process of taking it off, the sound reverberating, and he crouched down to retrieve it silently.“Maybe I should give you a break today.” 

Malarkey managed a small smile. “Thank the Lord for small mercies,” he said quietly. Irene reached out and patted him awkwardly on the shoulder. 

“Go get some sleep. We’ll deal with it,” Irene said. Elizabeth nodded. Irene pulled back her hand and shoved both in her jacket pockets. 

Malarkey nodded, seeming barely lucid, and stumbled off in the direction of his house. A few other men that recognized Irene and gave her brief, limp waves. 

“Not a very good idea, after all,” Elizabeth hissed to Irene as they watched Lieutenant Winters – Winters, of all people – walk straight to a nearby door, almost trip on the front stoop, and take two tries to get the knob to work. He leaned against the doorframe, watching stragglers as they disappeared into houses, and then he finally shut his own door. 

The street was once again empty, and the pair of pilots stood silently in the wake of Easy. 

“Yeah, maybe we should clean it up ourselves today,” Irene said. 

“You’re getting soft,” Elizabeth said, turning to walk back to the runway. 

Irene snorted. “No, I’m not. I’m just taking mercy on their poor souls.”

“Their fault for signing up for this, anyway.”

“Buncha fools,” Irene said. “Flyin’ into danger voluntarily? Stupid idea.”

Elizabeth laughed, pushing Irene playfully in the side. “Stupid, indeed.”

The sun was coming up over the horizon, and the dark blue over the houses had turned a dusky orange. It was cloudless and windless, and the two of them left the Aldbourne housing area, going back to the airfield and back to the big, limitless sky.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the second installment of the Firebird series. It includes a scene I wrote for my primary fic, Sister-in-Arms (on the airfield), but I decided it might be fun to see it from Irene’s perspective.


End file.
